THE SPACE BETWEEN HIS MILES AND MY HEART

There was a time when love felt like waiting by the door.
Waiting for his attention, waiting for his voice, waiting for something — anything — that felt like being seen.

Back then, it was just me and my oldest daughter.
I worked hard — harder than I should have — carrying everything on my back.

The bills, the vacations, the home, the quiet nights when the silence grew too heavy to bear.
I was the provider, the nurturer, the one who showed up every single day,
and still, somehow, I was made to feel like it wasn’t enough.

He worked for a while, but eventually, he stopped.
And when he did, I kept going.

Because that’s what women like me do — we pick up the weight,
we keep life steady,
we keep everyone fed and loved and clothed,
even when no one notices that we’re slowly breaking inside.

The phone became his world.
It was the third presence in our home — louder than our laughter,
more constant than our conversations.

I remember the ache of sitting next to him,
feeling galaxies away,
watching the glow of that screen light up his face while I begged — silently and out loud —
for his eyes to find mine.

I begged for us time.

For just one night of connection.
For him to look at me like I was still the woman he once chose.

And even though my world was built on bruises — emotional and physical —
I still craved the softness of love.

Because we all do.
No matter how strong we are,
no matter how independent,
we still want to be held,
to be chosen,
to be loved back with the same fire we give.

I thought that if I gave more, loved more, worked more —
he’d see me again.

But instead, I became invisible.
And what hurt the most wasn’t the yelling, the manipulation,
or the endless silence —
it was the slow dying of who I used to be.
The version of me who believed love was supposed to feel safe.

Looking back now, I see her —
the woman I was —
and I want to hold her hand and tell her that she deserved so much more.
That love shouldn’t have to be begged for,
that connection built on pain will never bloom into peace.

I used to think that being loved meant sacrificing myself,
but now I know:
it means being seen,
being safe,
being home in someone’s heart — not just their house.

And though those years were heavy,
they taught me something beautiful:
that even after being silenced, ignored, and made small,
I could still rise.
That I could still find myself again,
and love her — fully, fiercely, finally.

A Note from Mommy In Bloom 

This is a chapter from my past, a glimpse into a time when I felt unseen, unheard, and stretched to my limits. It’s a reminder of how much it hurts to long for connection, to give your all and still feel alone, and how those experiences shape the woman we become.

I share this not to dwell in the pain, but to honor it—to acknowledge the struggles and the lessons it left behind. For anyone who has ever felt invisible in a relationship, who has begged for love and attention and felt it still fall short, you are not alone.

And even as I look back, I can’t help but wonder… after all of this, can I open my heart to someone else? Can I trust again? Can I let myself be seen, fully and truly, by someone new? These are questions I carry forward, the ones that remind me that healing is not just about surviving—it’s about learning to love and trust again, starting with myself.

With love,

Mommy in Bloom